


Nightcrawlers

by malf0y101



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A whole lot of blood shit, Arson, Avada Kadavra, Azkaban, Black Lake, Blood, Blood Kink, Bow down to Hermione Granger, Dark, Dark Magic, Dark!Draco, Dark!Hermione, Death, Depressed Hermione, Depression, Drowning, Execution, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gore, Graphic Violence, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Imperius curse, Incarcerous Spell (Harry Potter), Kinky, Knives, Legilimency, Masturbation, Mudblood, Nudity, OOC Hermione, Occlumency, Physical Torture, Poison, Poisoning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Potions, Psychological Torture, Psychopath Draco Malfoy, References to Shakespeare, Ron slander for days, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Thestrals (Harry Potter), Threesome - F/M/M, Tying up during sex but not really BDSM, Unforgivable Curses (Harry Potter), Voyeurism, an iconic black ball gown, binding, carving, dead dove, degradation kink, lasting trauma, mild dub-con, probably will add more but these are the major ones, this is fucked
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28680150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malf0y101/pseuds/malf0y101
Summary: Returning to Hogwarts for her eighth year, Hermione Granger is depressed, resentful, and suicidal. That is, until Draco Malfoy presents an enticing offer to keep her alive. Soon after, the two embark on a torture spree of students, professors, and acquaintances while simultaneously engaging in a clandestine and dirty relationship. How long can they keep their game up?What crawls in the night stays in the night.trailer: https://twitter.com/malf0y101/status/1365376214500708353
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 176
Kudos: 494





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning—PLEASE READ. 
> 
> This fanfiction contains very dark materials that should only be read by a MATURE audience. 18+. If you are under the age of 18 and you wish to read this fanfiction, I ask that you please be mature about the themes presented. This is a very dark story, and I do not condone the actions presented in the plot. It is NOT my intention to romanticize the following actions. I’m saying that loud and clear right now before I get any sort of comments claiming such. Consume this fan fiction responsibly, please.

“How much do you hate your life, Granger?”

“A lot.” 

She never expected to be here. And she certainly never expected him to be the one to find her moments before she sunk her lungs into the cold release of the Black Lake. 

Hermione had imagined her suicide transpiring in several modes, but the promise of a slow and sweet demise by suffocating, drowning, sinking like a feather into the muggy water of the Black Lake seemed most appealing to her recently debauched mind. It would be oddly purifying, like the lake water would simultaneously decompose yet baptize her skin, purge her body of the trauma, the pain, the memories, the fucking aching that resided in her brain. 

Ultimately, she chose the Black Lake because while submerged under the water, there is absolute stillness. Void of noise. No birds chirping, no trees rustling, no distant whistling from steam engines, and certainly no pestering intones of the things Hermione was undeniably dreading to hear this eighth year from her peers— _oh, we’re back! Everything is normal! Things will be so much better now that You-Know-Who is dead!_

Blah, blah, blah. All fucking bullshit. All lies and tales and fabrications about the newfound reality of their traumatized lives.

For fuck’s sake, they had all survived a war. Who the _fuck_ outlasts something like that and comes out mentally unscathed? Who comes out as the same person they once were?

Certainly not Hermione. She’d racked her brain since the day Voldemort died, combing for answers, searching for explanations for her weighty, almost inevitably crippling involvement in the war. Why had she put herself through hell and back? 

It’d been for Harry, of course. For Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville. For the people she loved. For the cause. For the good of the world. 

But what had she gotten out of it other than reporters for the Daily Prophet practically stalking her and her friends whilst she attempted to undergo a normal summer? 

Trauma. A brain pigmented by the images of scarlet blood staining the Great Hall and lifeless bodies scattered across the castle grounds, representative of the faulty mirages of a crusade she finds herself all too disenfranchised with now, too marginalized from the message preached so brilliantly by those she fought alongside. 

Now, she can’t stand any of them. 

They’re all fucking idiots for believing that everything is fine. 

Because while they’re probably sleeping soundly in their four-post beds, their crimson or emerald or indigo or gold sheets swathing their bodies in the warmth and promise of another day alive, Hermione is knee deep in the Black Lake, contemplating—no, affirming her imminent expiry date. 

That is, until she is interrupted. She’s fucking interrupted by someone stalking her. 

Well, maybe he’s not stalking, but he sure as fuck isn’t parading around and willfully revealing himself. 

His voice is hoarse like the night as he asks yet another question, much to Hermione’s infuriation. 

“Why is that?” His tone is sardonic and cynical, like he knows the very reverberation of his question will edge Hermione to her wits end. 

Hermione huffs indignantly, her mind whirring at the nerve he has to disrupt her moment. 

“I’d rather not have to explain myself to you,” she snaps at him, still facing forward to take in the magnificence of the dusk, the splendor and luster of the full moon, and the silhouette of the castle as they all beat against the dark sky, chockfull of bullshit phenomena and phony gateways—gold and tall and pristine, just like her muggle friends used to explain to her—leading to—what—a fulfilled and saved life? An everlasting existence defined by one’s orthodoxy and capacity to perform charitable deeds? 

Hermione fucking despises divination, despises religion, despises all of that fabricated bullshit. It makes no sense to her. What the fuck does a star have to say about her? About him? About anyone in the world? And what the fuck does a man, woman, ethereal being—whatever the _fuck_ this ‘God’ even is—have to do with her being offered an afterlife? She doesn’t need an afterlife. Not when the one she is living in right now is wringing her dry of any capable emotions. 

What the fuck could she contribute while in Heaven? In Hell? Wherever the fuck she was going after this life, if anywhere? 

Maybe she's just headed straight for the ground. Body below dirt, nothing more.

Maybe, while under water, her body would decay so violently in the Black Lake that she’d be tethered to the abyss, her afterlife consisting of intaking water in her lungs and slowly decomposing over time. 

She’d rather just die and see black for the rest of her life. 

Not even black, but nothingness. Because the color black is still something—it’s a color. What Hermione wishes for is nothingness. 

It just so happens that they are rather similar.

Hermione feels the the water ripple on the back of her bare calves, and it becomes obvious that he has stepped into the water to meet her because every inch of the lake is perfectly still otherwise. The water sloshes against his determined strides, and Hermione inhales deeply with her chest and bunches her hands into tight fists. The color of her skin turns a deep red, dwelling over the first stage of discoloration—the white hue that usually appears with such pressure. Her body forgoes that tint as the blood gushes to her hand, as if to say, _fuck you for making me work overtime, Hermione. It’s exhausting serving you as your blood._

 _Yeah_ , she responds in her head, _everything is fucking exhausting._

Countless thoughts and reprovals spin and churn through her mind as she senses his menacing presence behind her. He’s only a foot away, and yet he clouds her ability to concentrate and execute her final act as the fucking Golden Girl. 

A part of her, lodged deep within her subconscious, itching to break past the prude barriers she constructed years ago, wishes that she could take him down with her. Grab him by the neckline of his shirt and drag him under the water— _wait, what is he wearing? Do I dare turn around and sneak a peek before I won’t even be able to use my eyes?_

_Fuck no. Just imagine him in his robes._

That’s what she does. 

“I hate mine a lot too,” he says. 

There it is—the big reveal. It’s like stars colliding to create a new, brighter bundle of light. It’s rare and atypical, but when it happens it shakes the galaxy to its core. 

Where are those reporters now? Someone should be here to write an exposé on this moment. Daily Prophet numbers would fucking soar with a headline detailing this extraordinary and erratic scene, recounting this unlikely interaction with verbose words and clickbait phrases: _Golden Girl and Death Eater Engage in Clandestine Meetings at the Black Lake in the Apex of the Night!_

Hermione swears she hears the click of a camera in her head—one of those ancient cameras, though. The ones that emit an earsplitting _clack_ and a brilliant lumos, blinding her for just a moment and then allotting time for her eyes to readjust again. If she just counts to three and flutters her eyes open, the ricochet of the light eventually subsides, her pupils contract, and she’s back in the lackluster and unfulfilling would she knows a little too well. 

Or maybe it’s just the moon sparkling in the air for just a second, but that second says it all. _Slam the brakes!_ it advises, and she almost does. She almost forgets why she’s even here. And then it reminds her, _You’re the Golden Girl! The one who saved them all! The brightest witch of her age!_

And then all of a sudden, like the flick of a switch, she’s back to wanting to fucking kill herself. 

How does she even respond to his comment? This is meant to be her moment. Her time to shine. Her stage. She’s supposed to be Hamlet— _no, fuck, that’s not the right character. Come on, Hermione—think. Who commits suicide in that play again?_

She doesn’t even bother searching her mind. It’ll all be numb in a few minutes anyway when she succumbs to the pressure of the water and the unrelenting density of everyone’s perception of her. It’ll drown her in the words she hates more than anything—'brightest witch,' _oh fuck off you absolute cunts._ If only they’d known how depressed she was during those years, how emotionally exhausted and physically tattered she’d become. How much she despised the people around her.

Would they still be in awe of her if they knew she was two feet deep in water, yearning to be six feet deep in the ground later? 

“Yeah.” Her response is curt and ambiguous. “Glad we finally have something in common.”

He snickers, the sounds snaking into the cavity of her ears like an ominous breeze. 

“We’ve had plenty in common before that,” he retorts, and she’s right back to hating his guts more than anything else in the entire world. 

“Indulge me.”

_Indulge me in the last few moments of my life. I’d love to have a laugh. One more hearty laugh._

“Well, we’re both rich.”

_Ha._

“No, you’re rich.”

“Hm. My mistake.”

_Fucking bastard._

“Well, at least neither of us are fucking mudbloods.”

_You motherfucker._

“My left arm begs to differ.”

He chortles, and her blood boils at the sound, like each reverberation of his laugh turns the heat dial of her body temperature up more and more, conjuring taller and hotter flames in her insides. The water around her calves simmers as her skin emanates that heat, stewing the lake with her anger. 

“You have a shit humor,” he mutters, and then he’s treading even deeper into the water and flagging to her left, and now Hermione is even more pissed off at the impetuous blonde because he’s effectively blocking her path, deterring her purpose for being here, and delaying the nothingness which she craves. 

An audience might be interesting, though. Hamlet had one. 

_Fuck… It’s on the tip of my tongue… the name… the name of the fucker who offed himself, maybe herself, in that god damn play—_

Ophelia. 

She’s Ophelia. 

She’s Ophelia, knee deep in the water, ready to kill herself. 

Figures. She should’ve plagiarized Shakespeare and sat on the branch of one of those trees back on shore, and then let it splinter under her body and allow her to tumble to her death and be ferried across the lake like a heavy log. 

A missed opportunity. 

But she digresses. 

“Who needs humor when everything is fucking pointless?”

“That’s the best time for humor, in my opinion.”

_Hm. He has a point._

“It’s called dark humor, Granger. You should try indulging sometime. It tickles the brain in tantalizing ways.”

_Sometime? You mean sometime within the next minute or two? Because that’s all the fucking time I have left._

“I’ll have to pass on that enticing offer.”

He snickers at her, digging his tongue into the inside of his cheek and shoving his hands into the pockets of his black slacks—slacks that are now soaking in the water. And he doesn’t even seem to care. 

Hermione had left her shoes on the shore because she couldn’t even fathom wadding into the water with socks and shoes on.

Draco Malfoy wears his without complaint. 

_Fucking psychopath._

“That’s classic. Always saying no because—what—you’re a prude? Scared of letting that mind run free with dark and nefarious thoughts?”

If only he fucking knew. She’s not scared of anything. She’s about to stamp herself with an expiration label, and it’s going to display today’s date—09/03/98—and it’s going to stick right on her forehead so that when a student, a professor—whoever the fuck stumbles upon her body—finds her cold, clammy, lifeless corpse in a few days, they’ll know that she had expired, that her life had elapsed, and now she is dead. 

“I’m not scared of anything,” she argues, cracking the knuckle of her right index finger by pressing her thumb down on the metacarpal. 

“Guess not. I suppose that’s why you’re knee deep in water in the middle of the night. The sorting hat clearly didn’t falter when he put you in Gryffindor—”

“Do you have a point to being here, Malfoy? Can I fucking help you? Because I’m a little preoccupied with something right now, and I’d prefer to be alone for it.”

“You like to be alone, huh?”

Hermione twists her head to the left, meeting his glistening eyes. She swears that the silver augment of those irises twinkle in the moonlight, yet their intentions are undoubtedly corrupted and sick. They flicker with the promise of something dark, as bright as the color actually is. 

“That’s not what you said a moment ago in that pretty little head of yours.”

_Fucking Legilimens bastard. He’s that fucking skilled at entering people’s mind that I can barely feel him slither his way into it? When the fuck did he even develop that skill? Motherfucker..._

“You’re reading my mind?”

“It’s an interesting place. Tell me, _Ophelia_ , do you plan on allowing Ms. Granger to plagiarize your iconic death scene?” 

Hermione inhales a vexed breath through her nostrils, spoiled with the air he’s already contaminated. It feels like chemicals colliding with the inside of her nostrils. 

“It’s my own spin on it. I’m merely paraphrasing the _unwritten_ scene.” 

“Hm. Good. Shakespeare is a boring twat. He makes me want to gouge my eyes out.”

Hermione fastens her eyes shut, using every muscle in her body to counter the festering anger she feels. The anger he is purposely trying to release. 

“He’s a literary genius.”

“Sure. For fucking prudes.”

“What is so prudish about Shakespeare?”

“He’s fucking predictable.”

“Predictable?” Hermione shrieks, twisting her head to face him. The smirk on his face reveals it all: Draco has successfully cracked her, chipped away at her skin piece by piece with his taunts and heckles until he’s hit a nerve—she doesn’t know which nerve, specifically—but he’s hit it, sliced it, ripped it from its bundle, and now she’s fucking fuming because, what, he doesn’t like Shakespeare? Could she be more pretentious and annoying?

Draco snorts with victory. “There she is.”

Hermione scoffs, rolling her eyes and forcing herself to look out at again the vast stretch of the lake. 

“I don’t think you actually want to die.”

“I do,” she responds, conspicuously nodding her head. “Trust me. I do.”

“So you choose…” Draco screws his head side to side, glancing at the location with a raised eyebrow, “The Black Lake as your mode of demise?”

“Is that so difficult to believe?” 

“A little, in fact. I’d pegged you for something more exciting. Falling on your own sword... like that cunt Dido—what a fucking dumb bitch she was for believing in love. Launching yourself off of a tower... like that officer from Les Misérables—don’t even get me started on that fucking arsehole. Maybe even just casting a bunch of curses against walls in the hopes that it reverberates and hits you square in the chest, stopping that sweet little heart of yours from beating anymore.” He shrugs and smirks. “I don’t know. Something more exciting and poetic like that.”

_How the fuck does he know all of those literary references?_

“You’re teasing me. When have I ever been exciting to you?”

“You’ve always been exciting to me, Granger,” he whispers, and then he’s sidestepping to the right and placing himself behind her back, setting his chin on her left shoulder, and wrapping his arms around her cold body from behind. Hermione lifts her arms and holds them in the air as Draco sets his chest taut against her back. She can feel the bends and curves of his body against hers—bony yet sturdy, like his emaciated figure has been revitalized by something deeper and more sinister than simply muscle. 

Her breath catches in her throat as his mouth hovers inches from her ear. 

“There’s a darkness to you that I have been desperate to uncover.”

Hermione exhales out of her nose, her arms dropping to her sides and resting flaccidly atop his. “I don’t have darkness within me. I have nothing within me.”

_There’s a difference._

Draco snorts and tilts his head to the side, and now Hermione can really sense his breath upon her. Little pebbles configure over her arms and neck as his exhale amalgamates with the wind and crashes against her bare skin, pestering and begging the temptations within her to edge out. 

“No,” he rasps, “there’s a darkness inside you. You are someone who is pissed at everyone and everything in her sorry life. Someone who wants desperately to let her rage out. Yell. Scream. Rebel. Do something dangerous and clandestine and dark. And I mean fucking _dark_.”

She hates to admit to herself how tempting that sounds—not only the things which Draco says, but the fact that he’s the one uttering these words. 

Captivates is an understatement—he seduces her, bewitches her soul, bends her desires in his direction. She can feel her gut tow towards him like it’s trying to consort with his suggestions. 

“I can help bring that side out of you,” he continues. 

Her body flutters like the ripples of water around her, spreading out like cobwebs. 

“Or—” and he suddenly pulls away from her and steps back, completely disrupting the water around them and leaving Hermione in a state of desperation for his hands again— “you can just off yourself in the trivial and uninspiring way you had planned.” 

Hermione spins in the water and watches as Draco treads backwards towards the shore, the smirk on his face already denoting his victory over her. 

“So fucking predictable, Granger.”

She has no shame stopping him. He’s unlocked Pandora’s box, and evil spreads within Hermione like a Gemino Curse. And he’s the only one she wants to explore it with. 

“Malfoy…”

Draco stops walking. “Yes, Ophelia?”

She inches forward to meet him, her eyes lifting to connect with his in the gloomy luster. 

“What do you have in mind?”

Draco lifts the side of his cherry lips in a devilish grin and slowly leans his head into the crook of her neck, whispering into her ear, “The question is, what do you have in mind?”

She thought she wanted to kill herself, but perhaps that could wait. Perhaps, she could explore this side, this inner demon, this fucking sweltering presence that warps and coils its way around her nerves, her muscles, and her bones first. 

And if she stills finds no pleasure in life, no excitement, no ounce of thrill that was once promised to her, then she’ll off herself. She could hold this façade for a little longer.

The sentence blurts right out of her mouth, but she means every word of it:

“I want to kill Ron Weasley.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Fucking hell, Granger. I knew there was darkness in you.”

Hermione’s heart rate escalates, the pressure of the beating organ dripping down the cavities of her chest and coiling around her stomach. Her breath wavers under the gravity of her shocking yet decisive words. In truth, she’s stunned that she blurted out that sentence without stuttering, dumbfounded that the most intimate and darkest thoughts of her subconscious—right next to wanting to drown herself and die—managed to slip their way through her chapped lips.

She’s even more surprised that she bore her soul to him of all people.

But Draco managed to lure the sentiments right out of her. He seduced her to spill the very catalyst of her bleak intentions. He used his eyes, his breath, his hands, his body, and his words. Tangled together in a web of charm and seduction, Draco’s actions pocketed the evil right out of Hermione. Displayed it in the peak of the night so that even the stars could heed her nefarious thoughts.

But she means every word of it.

_Stars, I’m not lying._

Now, if only the _sun_ knew what she planned on doing. Would it scorch the earth before she could have her moment? Revoke her weapon right before the final blow? Beg her to rediscover the golden luster that everyone attests to perceiving in her?

She doesn’t care about being ‘gold’ anymore. She cares about murdering Ron fucking Weasley.

And there are several reasons why.

The first reason is that Ron Weasley is a conniving, greedy arsehole. A spitting image of every sad and pathetic motherfucker who would do anything to have a moment in the limelight. Who’d cut his throat and drown in his own blood to have the world focus on him, even if that fame lasted for only a moment. He’d lie, cheat, steal, and grovel to be the center of attention.

Ron exhibits an undying need to prove himself. Constantly overshadowed by Harry and Hermione—that’s what the horcrux told him, anyway—Ron has internalized his uselessness since the conception of their group. Yet rather than do something about it, he simultaneously sulks in his misery yet claws his way towards any sliver of publicity available to him.

It’s this perpetual need of to counteract every lackluster characteristic he has ever been called—useless, average, out of place, ordinary, boring, inept, unnecessary—that Hermione can’t fucking stand. He wails and laments and pities himself until his body finally has nothing left to cry about.

_Oh well._

In truth, that’s not Hermione’s problem.

She’s not his responsibility. Not his fucking therapist, not a carpet that he can stomp all over, not a support animal that heeds his constant beck and call, not a beam he can constantly rely upon.

Because Hermione has borne her trauma and manifested it into something more productive. She’s _been_ strong. She dug herself out of the trenches of the war. And— _yes_ —she was about to kill herself. But at least she was sure of what she wanted. At least she didn’t mope around the castle, pitying herself like a morose, pessimistic, useless organism. Hermione can at least stand firm in her being and in her decisions.

But Ron? Ron is weak. Pathetic. Out of place. Ordinary and boring and inept and unnecessary and _too fucking dependent_ on her.

And so he seeks light in any method he can.

The light of a camera, that is.

Not metaphorical light. Not peace. _Physical_ light.

He throws himself onto Hermione the second that cameras come around. That’s all he did all _fucking_ summer. She can’t even do her bloody grocery shopping without being hoarded by the reporters and then subsequently swathed by Ron as if they are this perfect, unproblematic couple.

And each time Ron’s arm finds its way around her shoulders or waist, Hermione cringes. Her jaw stiffens at his touch. Nothing vibrates, tingles, sparkles, or feels anything like it should when a partner shows affection.

Instead, she feels bile rise in her throat. And he continues to kiss her, touch her back, caress her hair, and smile for the tabloids while Hermione puts on a pleasant façade. But in her head, she wishes she could just obliterate every single one of those fuckers.

So—yes—Ron would lie, cheat, steal, and grovel for the fame.

Now, would he _kill_?

Probably not.

He’s far too weak for that. Can’t stomach the sight of slicing flesh in half.

But Hermione isn’t weak.

In fact, standing here, rejuvenated by the confession of her intentions, Hermione feels stronger than ever before. Capable of anything. Desirous of turmoil.

The second reason is that the moment he kissed her in the Chamber of Secrets, Ron assumed that Hermione was his to control. He believes that love is like a switchboard, and that on any certain day he can activate whichever form of Hermione he desires. Press his _unsatisfying_ fingers down on those buttons and operate every limb, cell, and hormone in her body.

Well, he can’t. Never could.

And never should be able to.

The third reason is that every time Ron is around her, Hermione feels like she is suffocating. Drowning. Dying. His words and his breath rain like acid, singeing her skin and burning her mouth every time that he places a kiss on her lips.

And isn’t that just so poetic? Suffocation, strangulation, asphyxiation. All synonyms of the way Hermione planned to say goodbye to this cruel world.

It’s another reason she can never fucking escape him. He’ll follow her to death, fall on his own sword for her like they’re fucking Romeo and Juliet.

_Merlin… it’s pathetic._

The fourth is that he’s… he’s… he’s _shit_ in bed. And she’d be doing a service to the world, truthfully, by murdering him.

“So, killing the Weasel,” Draco continues, drawing Hermione out of her deep contemplation.

She realizes that she’s been staring at the emerald forest behind him in all its mystery and intrigue. Clandestine and murky and dubious. The trees whistle with those sentiments. “What’s the reason?”

_Couldn’t have read my mind just now, Malfoy? Of all the times you wish to creep into my head to hear what I have to say—how I feel—you couldn’t have just done it a moment ago?_

“Oh, I read your thoughts.”

_Fucking bastard._

He half-smiles, the edge of his lip curling in delight. “I just want to hear you say all those things out loud. Use that pretty little mouth of yours, Ophelia. Tell me all about how shit the Weasel is in bed. I’d love a good laugh.”

Hermione reaches her arms across her chest and hugs herself tightly. She suddenly feels cold, like warmth has been extracted from her body and mind. Like the fire that once ignited her desire to die no longer exists, no longer burns, no longer entices her to swipe her finger over the flame in a moment of experimentation.

“Can we step out of the water?” she asks, tilting her head with disdain.

Draco snorts with a sly grin. “Have you got cold feet?”

_Yes. Fuck you, yes. I have cold feet. In more ways than one. You got me._

Draco plods deeper into the water, steps to Hermione’s right side, and extends his left hand to her. In a wicked yet seductive manner, Draco uncurls his fingers from his fist, and Hermione can’t help but be completely enraptured by the way his slender digits invite her to grab hold.

Instead, she scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“Come on. I don’t bite,” Draco murmurs. “Well, not unless I’m asked politely.”

“You’re repulsive.”

With a tilt of his eyebrow and an irresistible smirk, Draco dips his head down to catch Hermione’s gaze and whispers, “Says the one with murder on her sweet mind.”

“Oh, goodness, you’re right,” Hermione sarcastically retorts. “Tell me, Malfoy—wasn’t it you that held a wand to our headmaster a year and a half ago, the killing curse just itching to slip out of your mouth?”

“What a good little memory you have. And you wanted to squash that away with dying?”

“I hate my memories.”

“Ah. We seem to have _more_ in common.”

She waits another moment and finds herself corrupted yet again by his glistening eyes. And then she places her hand in his. It’s ice cold to the touch, like he’s dead inside.

Draco takes the first steps forward, tugging Hermione along with him.

She feels all sorts of things. Angry. Irritated. Exhausted. Charmed.

And then her feet are back on the grass, the thistles tickling her skin as she lets go of Draco’s hands and finds a spot to lie down. Collapsing, Hermione brings her hands to her forehead, and she drags down the skin on her face with her nails because it feels _good_.

She’s freezing. Fucking freezing.

She instinctively reaches for her wand to cast a Warming Charm—because magic can cure anything!—when she realizes that she’s left it in her dormitory. She left it in that sad room, along with the rest of her belongings all stacked perfectly on her nightstand, tucked away neatly in her dresser, and hung pleasantly in her closet.

Of course. Because why would she bring anything to her death?

And so her teeth chatter in the silence of the twilight, along with the soft crash of waves on the shore that have gotten even quieter since leaving her suicide spot.

“Just ask for help, Ophelia.”

Hermione sits up on her elbows to see Draco leaning his back against the bark of a large tree, his knee bent and his elbow resting atop it. He smirks and cranes his head as his hand dips into the pocket of his pants and pulls out his wand.

“Did you say… a Warming Charm?”

Twisting the wood through his fingers, Draco swipes the wand across the space around them and conjures a bubble of heat.

“I _thought_ it,” Hermione groans. “Now, stop reading my mind.”

“But it’s such a brilliant place. I like hearing all of your nefarious thoughts and desires.”

She sits up, her eyes trailing across Draco’s body to her pairs of socks and shoes that rest several feet away from him. They taunt her with their inevitable temperateness.

Hermione extends her hand forward, gesturing towards them. “Just hand me my shoes, Malfoy.”

Draco looks to the side, roguishly grins, and picks up the socks and shoes.

And she assumes that he is just going to pitch them to her side so she can dress herself again. But instead, like the little seducer he is, Draco stands, walks towards Hermione, and kneels in front of her. Before she can protest, Draco takes the heel of her right foot in his hand—still arctic cold—and slips the sock right back onto it. As Draco dresses her foot, his other hand finds her calf for support, and she almost yelps at his bare touch.

Then, he glides the shoe right back onto her foot. Her black Oxfords. And he stares at her the entire time that he ties the thin laces.

And then, the same process occurs with her other foot. And each time his fingers brush over her sensitized skin, Hermione feels lead drag her stomach down. She feels warmth enter every pore on her body. Her eyes sting and her lips throb.

Because there’s something about Draco at her feet that makes her feel powerful. Dominant, even.

Once he’s done toying with her skin and mind, Draco sits back on the grass opposite Hermione, his legs extended and running parallel to hers. Almost touching. That smile returns, and _fucking hell_ her stomach officially hits the ground under that look. That gaze, which could kiss and kill at the same time, forces her to bite her lower lip in dissent.

“You know,” he starts, his right foot tapping against the air like a tick he can’t control, “I’ve had similar thoughts ruminating in my mind since I got back from Azkaban. About how charming the people here are.”

Hermione remembers reading about his arrest in the Daily Prophet—those fucking bastards—like it is yesterday’s headline: _Draco Malfoy, Child Death Eater, Sentenced to Three Months in Azkaban for Crimes Against the Wizarding World._

Three months. She thought the sentence was both too long and too short.

She would have loved to see Draco Malfoy rot in prison for the rest of his life.

But she’s almost glad that he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he continues, retrieving Hermione from another one of her perpetual dazes, “All those fuckers in that castle, sleeping soundly, thinking that the world is a much better place now that Voldemort is gone.” He snorts and rolls his eyes, and Hermione actually relishes in the fact that they share another sentiment. That their disdain for their peers is a commonality that will inevitably draw them together. “They’re all willfully ignorant of the madness that still exists.”

“I agree,” she responds curtly.

Draco sighs and tilts his head. “It’s surprising how much we truly have in common.”

“Guess so.”

“You ever been to prison, Ophelia?”

He uses that fucking tone of voice again—sardonic and sweet at the same time. And it conjures vibrations everywhere. Each intone of the syllable, roll of the tongue, and flick of the teeth leads Hermione’s already icy body to shake with anticipation.

But she’s able to regain her composure for the time being.

“Do you _think_ I’ve been to prison, Malfoy?”

“Maybe. To pass out biscuits and cupcakes.”

Hermione huffs. “Well, then I think you have your answer.”

“No need to read your mind for that one.”

“No.”

Draco plays with his tongue, swiping it across his teeth as Hermione rolls her eyes. She can’t seem to figure him out—can’t pin down the thoughts churning in his mind. His debauched mind. His fucked-up mind.

_Hm. Another thing we have in common._

“Don’t you want to hear what Azkaban was like?”

_Yes._

“No.”

He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

_Why is he drawing so much attention to his damn mouth? Stop fucking doing that, Malfoy._

“Come on. Let me tell you. You’ve given me such a wonderful insight into your recent summer adventures. Why don’t I return the favor and tell you a little about mine?”

“Your _adventures_ in a prison couldn’t possibly have been that exciting.”

Draco raises his lips into a devilish smile. “I promise you—they were.”

A sigh escapes her lips and kisses the air as a sign of consent to hear his story.

He begins. “I thought about a lot of things while sitting in that cell. It was actually the sound of the waves crashing on the stone fortress that kept me sane. Well, sane _enough_.”

Hermione’s fingers curl at his insinuation.

“I thought about all the things that led to the moment I was shoved into that cell. Receiving the Dark Mark, repairing the Vanishing Cabinet, fleeing Hogwarts after that loony’s death, living out my sorry days at the Manor, fighting at Hogwarts, awaiting my trial, getting handcuffed, and then—of course—being tossed into the cell in Azkaban. They said, ‘Enjoy your summer, Mr. Malfoy,’ and then walked away with these colossal, victorious grins on their faces. And I sat there, stared at the wall, counted all of the crooks and crevices of the stones, traced each pattern with my fingers until I memorized every inch of my cell, and then I repeated the process over and over again.

“But then, around four weeks into my sentence, the wheels in my mind faltered. And I started simply experiencing… nothing.” Draco inhales, as if the memory is something of a drug that he can’t get enough of. That even the measly thought has enough power to stir euphoria in his blood. “My eyes were wide open—always—but everything else was quiet. Dormant. Didn’t exist. I was like a corpse, lying in my bed and staring at the ceiling. And then—” Draco snaps his fingers and smiles— “one day, everything rewired.”

Hermione can’t deny her captivation. Can’t focus on anything in the moonlight except for the conniving way that Draco tells his story. It’s the mannerisms—his fingers, eyebrows, lips. They all move to create an image so tempting yet terrifying.

He finishes his thought as Hermione inhales slowly.

“A thought popped into my head. _Finally_.”

She’s on the edge of her seat—metaphorically. Her chest extends forward, and her tongue meets her lips. She breathes life back into her soul with the ghost of his words.

“Everyone at this school is a fucking idiot. Everyone at this school relishes in the knowledge that they made some moral choice last year. Everyone at this school is plain boring.” He pauses and gazes at Hermione. “Except for you. You, Ophelia—you’re extraordinary.”

Just when she feels her breath coming back, it’s ripped away with those words. And she feels like the world is swallowing her whole, because the way that Draco is scanning her up and down with his hungry eyes represents the total vacuum that she’s fallen into. She’s wrapped around his finger, stumbling deep into his abyss. And she _likes_ it.

“I don’t have a master plan. I don’t have much of an agenda. I barely have a reason. I’d just like to wreak havoc. _You_ , on the other hand. You seem to have a vendetta.”

A vendetta. That doesn’t even come close to how Hermione feels about her peers.

What she wants is to weigh a crusade upon them. Step on each of their throats and spit in their face and remind them of who she really is, because they seem to have forgotten.

“They see me as polar opposites,” she begins. “Two ends of the same line. On the one hand, they treat me like I’m perfect. Like one step out of line means that the world will erupt into flames again. And then, at the same bloody time, everyone walks on eggshells around me, like they think I’m going to break into a million little pieces. They treat me like I’m invincible yet broken. Supreme yet frail, flimsy, shattered, and useless.”

Hermione pauses from her monologue and glares at Draco.

“Well, I’m not. I’m not any of those things. I’m just one _fucking_ person.”

“So, you want to prove to everyone that you’re not as weak as they think you are?”

Hermione scoffs. “I wanted to die, actually. Put myself out of my misery.”

“Well, _I’m_ not letting that happen.”

“ _Fine_. I want to prove to everyone that I’m not weak, and I want them to know that I’m not some perfect Gryffindor princess. Some stupid fucking Golden Girl. I want to show them just how angry I can get. I want this whole place—every student in it—to understand that our world is not as safe and sound as they think. That they can’t pretend that everything is fine when it really isn’t. I want to fucking get inside their heads, make them scream, make some of them bleed, make them beg for their lives, make them wish the war took them away for good. I want them to suffer. Feel just as low as I do right now.”

Hermione’s blood is boiling inside her body—she can feel it. And each sentiment that passes her lips only makes her body feel hotter. On fire.

But it feels so fucking good. She can’t deny it.

Draco whistles. “You’re certainly not the same Granger as before.”

“And you’re the same Malfoy?” she snaps, furrowing her eyebrows.

He shakes his head and laughs quietly. “Not at all.”

“More in common, then.”

She makes the mistake of seizing his eye contact. Her skin burns at his gaze. Who knew that the moon could burn? That it has a twin? And that those two moons rest right upon his face?

Hermione quickly reverts her eyesight and instead plays with the grass in her fingers, tugging and snagging as a means to keep busy. Distract herself from the alluring gaze of Draco fucking Malfoy.

And then, because she can’t control her fucking mouth sometimes, Hermione asks, “Would you say we’re the most _insane_ or the _sanest_ of everyone here?”

Draco considers the question for a moment. Then, he answers, “The sanest.”

“Because we’re actually processing what the war did to us.”

“Yes.”

“What prison did to you.”

“Precisely.”

Hermione exhales. “It’s just our methods of processing that are—”

“Unhinged?”

She purses her lips and nods. “But tempting.”

“Are you tempted, Ophelia?”

How does she answer that? Of course she’s fucking tempted. Draco etched his way into her brain, her subconscious, her darkest compartments within her soul, and guided every little reprehensible thought right out of her like a steady stream. He kissed her like a Dementor—sucked those ideas right out of her in a little blue light for him to admire.

Hermione just nods quietly.

“You want to make people suffer?” Draco continues, leaning forward.

Hermione thinks for a moment, then matches his actions as her chest guides her towards his.

And their faces are a foot away from one another’s, and she bravely glares right into his eyes when she says it:

“I want to make them wish they were dead.”

His grin screams evil. It’s practically a manifestation of every dark affair in the world. Beneath the mien, Hermione assumes that Draco is throbbing with eagerness, savoring the unimagined sight before him.

“Might I make a small suggestion?”

Scornfully, Hermione sighs and nods.

_Sure. Ruin my master plan, Malfoy. Go on._

“Drive them crazy before you pull the trigger.”

She cocks an eyebrow.

_Interesting._

“Torture their minds. Make them see things that aren’t there. Take their favorite things in the whole world and turn whatever it is against them. Remind them of everything that the war did. Rain hell and don’t look back. And savor their expressions and the smell of their fear. It’ll be painted on their faces and smeared in their sweat.”

She’s not sure why she expected anything less from him. Those words echo every sentiment he harbored while in Azkaban. And now they culminate here, in this bubble of warmth, next to the Black Lake, in the thick of this fateful night.

And slowly, the wheels in her mind begin to turn, and Hermione understands his intentions. Reading his mind is unnecessary—she knows exactly what he intends to relay.

“And then—fine—you can kill them if you want. _Or_ you can let them live out the rest of their days in emotional turmoil. To me, that seems more fun.”

She loves it.

But loves taunting him more.

“You’re a real-life psychopath,” she whispers. “You know that, right?”

Draco snickers at her. “You have no idea.”

She gulps half of her confidence. Because he’s full-on admitted to being irrational. Cracked. A bloody psychopath.

He’s so fucking crazy.

Does Hermione wanting him even more now make her _more_ crazy?

“The temptation is too strong for you to resist,” he coos. “I know you want to play this game with me. I know you’re intrigued. I can read that lovely mind of yours like a book. You, Ophelia, want to watch the world burn. You just need a little push. A little inspiration. A little help.”

_Push him again. It's fun. Entertaining._

“Or I could report you.”

Draco laughs, as if he knows she won’t do it. “You won’t do that.”

_Yes, I know._

“You’re in too deep, Ophelia.”

_I am._

“I can see it in those golden eyes. You want to kill the Weasel, and I want to help you. You’re not going to pass up on that delightful opportunity.”

“No,” Hermione relents, “I’m not.”

“Besides, do you really think that they’re going to expect me—the Head Boy and a recent inmate—to commit such vile things? That’d be in direct violation of my terms of release. I’m a changed man.” He pauses and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “Just not in the way they think.”

The dark part of Hermione’s mind sprints into action.

She thinks about all the things she can do to those fuckers in the school. She could torture them psychologically—physically, even. Deprive them of their most precious senses and abilities. Take the things they love and manipulate their meaning. Drive them crazy with the myriads and apparitions of those that the war took away.

Cut their throats.

Slice their fingers off.

Yank their teeth out of their sorry mouths.

Point a wand at their heads and mutter that dangerous yet sweet incantation that’s followed by a green light so haunting yet so glorious that Hermione senses feels herself _drool_ at the thought.

She can feel the cloud of corruption shadow her senses. She _invites_ it, truthfully. Pours it a cup of tea and douses it with sugar as the wicked sentiment sits placidly on the loveseat inside her head. And it speaks to her, seductively, and it sounds like his velvety voice.

“I can help you do all those things and more, Ophelia.”

_Ophelia._

She doesn’t even process that Draco’s fingers are dancing upon her bare thigh, trailing their way just past the hem of her skirt. When her eyes fall to behold the act, her mouth falls open, and the breath of corruption seeps out of the aperture and into the space between them. A confirmation of sorts. A pledge to one another.

“You’re sure you can go through with it?” Draco confirms, angling his head to the side as a means of taunting her. “You think those precious little hands of yours can handle it?”

He’s egging her—Hermione knows this. She can feel the anger fester in her stomach, explode through her chest, and come to fruition as she opens her mouth to respond.

“Death is not scary to me, Malfoy. I was about to welcome it. And I’ve seen it up close and personal. It doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t haunt me. It doesn’t control me. I control it. My wand is dying to meet that curse. Itching to be baptized. And this feeling inside of me—this obsession that I’ve been trying to counter—is growing stronger and stronger with every word you say. I actually enjoy you baiting me. I enjoy you taunting and testing me. It reminds me how badly I want to do this. And how I’m not alone.”

She pauses her monologue to study Draco, who stares at her with his mouth open slightly. His fingers have stopped moving but they remain attached to her skin, his nails digging with just enough pressure that Hermione lets out a shaky breath.

“And I like when you call me Ophelia.”

His smirk reappears. “Do you?”

“I want you to call me that when we’re torturing and brutalizing everyone.”

He snickers. “Your wish is my command, Ophelia—”

Hermione's hand suddenly grips his. She sinks her nails into his skin. “ _Only_ when we’re working.”

Draco furrows his eyebrows. “But it rolls off my tongue so sweetly. Among other things,” he slurs.

“You can call me anything else during the day. Granger, bitch, even _mudblood_ if you’re brave enough.”

Draco’s eyebrows shoot up. “And variations of that?”

“Whatever your ruthless brain can think of. But Ophelia is reserved for the night. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

Hermione releases his bruised hand.

The fire fades in her eyes, along with the throbbing in her head. Hermione returns to earth—floats down like an angel dressed in white, even though her heart is tainted scarlet.

Draco gazes at her like she’s a goddess.

Aphrodite, perhaps? He could practically undress her with that gaze.

Or maybe Hera? Proud and bold and territorial of those who belong to her?

Athena? Ready for war at a second’s notice?

No. She’s not a goddess.

She’s Ophelia.

But not from _Hamlet_. No, no, no. She’s her own version of that sorry character.

Vengeful. Hungry for blood. Cold and conniving and vicious.

_And here I thought I wanted to kill myself…_

“Didn’t I say Shakespeare was boring and predictable?” Draco taunts. “He killed his Ophelia. Didn’t see any potential in her. But you?”

Hermione smirks.

“You are the Ophelia he never got to write about.”

And her body shakes with anticipation. “I am.”

Draco inches his head closer to hers. “You could put all of his villains together—Iago, Lady Macbeth, Richard III, Cassius, Claudius—and none of them will match up to you.”

She shudders again, the words crashing against her neck and traveling up her pulse in the same manner as his nimble fingers on her leg. “You’re right.”

“Shakespeare will roll in his grave wishing he wrote about you.”

Hermione sighs like she’s been carried to heaven, and _fucking hell_ , with the way that Draco is speaking to her, maybe it does exist after all.

“But don’t worry,” Draco says sweetly, the side of his lips curving in a smile. “I’ll make sure the world remembers us. Your name will be in the stars. It will touch the sun and shine upon the whole world as a memento.”

“Keep talking,” Hermione begs, falling onto her back and savoring each word that comes from his mouth.

And resuming the dance of his fingers upon her skin, Draco says, “The Golden Girl is dead. I’m going to immortalize the new you, Ophelia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you think hermione is kind of overreacting... congrats! that's kind of the point... she's losing her mind... muahahah


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione wonders when it all began.

When the tides in her mind stopped flowing in their usual direction.

When the motion given to them since the conception of time suddenly diverged from its typical trajectory and instead crafted a deep, hollow abyss in her mind. A dark, clandestine, dirty gap of space in the center of her brain that harbors the voice that constantly tells her to kill herself. Pull the trigger. Drown yourself. Slit your throat. Just fucking _do_ it!

She knows it was the war—of course it was the fucking war. There’s no denying the malicious way it bulldozed over every little memory and happy feeling she once experienced. Everything was crushed beneath the sounds of the battle and the subsequent memories of death, of the students and professors and allies strewn across the courtyard and lined in the Great Hall. And those unhappy memories simply fester and putrefy whatever remains in her brain until, at some point, Hermione suspects that there will be nothing but crimson red mirages of the Angel of Death claiming each and every person, thing, and place that she held dear to her.

But there were moments before the war, too. Instances of true, uncontrollable anger that Hermione underwent at the will of the fire in her brain, hands, and tip of her wand. Rage knows Hermione like she’s its creator—it’s lied dormant in her for years like a ticking bomb, clacking away in her mind and growing louder and louder with each day she’s still alive. It’s just that the war seemed to bring that side of Hermione out of her in unexplainable ways. Without it, she might’ve been able to control the intense wrath swimming inside of her second only to the cells that bathe in the scarlet life-force within her.

Or could she?

Was it inevitable that she ended up this way? Was it inevitable that the framework of her brain rewire and renovate itself into something new, something fucking perfect?

If she’s being honest with herself, Hermione loves the way it feels. She relishes in the fiery heat that engorges her mind and heart. She chokes on the evil yet breathes it in with ease, as if it’s the air she’s always been supposed to breathe. 

Maybe it _was_ inevitable.

Hermione knows she could snap at any moment if she wanted. One little movement, one flick of her wand, one lovely little curse and she could wreak so much fucking havoc on the world. Rise from the ashes of the war as a new force everyone must reckon with.

And isn’t that the point of this new lifestyle she’s welcoming? To wreak havoc? To test the boundaries of mankind in whatever debauched way she can? To see just how far she can go against her beloved classmates? 

Maybe the question is, when did _havoc_ become so enticing to Hermione? Because before that it was suicide that was enticing. It was silence. It was a still lake, a decomposing corpse, and an afterlife full of nothingness.

She thinks—she suspects—that it really all started fifth year.

It had all the world to do with the way everyone treated her, Harry, and Ron. The way they alienated them and made them believe they were fucking crazy for publicizing that Voldemort had returned. Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever truly forgiven her peers. She’d been strong that year, returning the disgusted glares of her classmates and slanting her lips in detestation at everyone who loathed Harry for telling the truth, for speaking up, for being the bravest out of all of them.

Since then, there’s always been a voice in the back of Hermione’s head telling her that those students were frauds, arseholes, despicable fuckers who deserved to burn for casting them aside and treating them like scum.

That’s an overreaction—she knows. That’s the whole fucking point.

Now, she knows they weren’t entirely alone. They had friends, people who believed them, and steadfast supporters who’d walk to the ends of the earth for them. Neville, Luna, Ginny.

But then why did it feel like she was so alone?

And why was it that every time Seamus opened his mouth to make some nasty remark, or Cho traipsed through the hallways like she was something special, or fucking any of them even _glanced_ in her direction to offer a snarky look, Hermione felt the odd urge to snap their necks? Slice their fingers off? Choke them until they collapsed to the floor? Gouge their _fucking_ eyes out and hurl them across the corridor for everyone to see? 

Her own eyes would practically catch aflame each time they’d look in her direction. Her fists would tighten, and her untrimmed nails would sink into her sweaty palms. And then her brain, still _relatively_ intact that year, would remind her to take several deep breaths and calm down. She’d release the pressure in her fists so that her nails would stop tearing through her skin, and then an icy breath of fresh air would cloud her growing anger before it could become too hysterical. She’d feel less like her skin was going to simmer off of her body, leaving her a bare, walking corpse of the woman she once was. 

And since then, she’d try her best to repress all of those malevolent feelings.

But the way her emotions fluctuated was all too easy. Like a scale, balancing the two ends of the emotional spectrum, it teetered back and forth with relative ease. Too much ease.

If she stood before Anubis with such a heart of emotions, he'd surely grow dumbfounded at the ferocity of the scale, the intense fluctuation and the constant swing of the shallow basins. 

And in the face of death, as Hermione’s emotions would alternate from one end to the other, she barely felt herself flinch.

The first person she saw die at Hogwarts was Lavender Brown.

And is it awful that she barely felt any pain during her death? That there was so much adrenaline pumping through her veins, and she was far too devoted to one end of the emotional spectrum—the one that hated everyone and everything for putting her in that position—that she didn’t even seem to care as Fenrir consumed Lavender's flesh and blood? She knows she cried, but it was instinctual. Because there was still a voice in the back of her head that repeated over and over again as she ran through the castle that _Lavender fucking deserved it_.

In fact, watching Fenrir feed off of Lavender’s blood was oddly _intriguing_ —

“Are you alright, ‘Mione?”

It’s Ginny’s unmistakably soothing voice that draws Hermione out of her violent, gory daydream. 

Hermione doesn’t even remember how she got here.

But like the flick of a switch, her eyes connect with her brain, and she realizes that she’s sitting in the Great Hall and smearing red jam onto a piece of dry toast.

Ginny’s question might’ve drawn her out of her abnormal yet satiating fantasy, but it’s Ron’s incessant chewing to her left that really seizes her attention. Each chomp down on his scrambled eggs and sausage links is torture to Hermione's ears. He barely leaves time between each serving to properly chew on his food before stuffing more into his big mouth. His lips pop as he shreds his breakfast with his teeth, and Hermione fucking cringes at the sounds he makes. 

Tilting her head to the side, Ginny asks again, “Hermione? Are you alright?”

Hermione loosens her tightened jaw and casts her glance away from Ron— _thank Merlin_ —to look at Ginny, eyes wide and lips parted with concern.

She nods and answers in one simple yet universally complicated word: “Fine.” And then she glides her knife over her toast back and forth, spreading the slick jam onto every inch of the crispy bread.

Unconvinced, Ginny furrows her eyebrows and swirls her spoon around her porridge. “But you seem rather distracted. Are you sure everything is okay?”

The knife slips out of Hermione’s hand and lands on the plate in front of her. Ron and Ginny both jerk as silver meets metal in a harsh beat, and Hermione sucks in a deep breath through her flared nostrils. Her chest expands with irritation as she attempts to compose herself. 

_Put on a façade, Hermione. You can do this._

The sides of her lips curve in a sweet smile as she lifts the knife. “I’m fine. Just a little tired is all.”

“Did you sleep alright last night?” Ginny asks.

It’s funny—Hermione doesn’t even believe that she slept at all.

All she remembers is being with Draco at the Black Lake, and then she remembers being back in her room with Ginny and the other girls, staring at the ceiling that pokes through the hole in her four-post bed like an illusion. With her hands clasped and settled on her chest, and her eyes fluttering in and out of sleep, Hermione lied there on her bed, just breathing. Letting her mind succumb to total reticence. Seeing what it would be like to feel absolutely nothing, just like Draco said while he described his prison sentence in Azkaban.

And now she’s here in the Great Hall. Maybe she has achieved that sense of nothingness—she has no fucking idea how she got here. Time seems to move without warning, dragging her practically lifeless body with it. It’s as if she did die yesterday in the lake, and now she sits on the bench of the Gryffindor table like a ghost, an apparition of who she was once. 

Ophelia’s ghost. Watching, surveying the actions of the men who led her to her demise.

No, no. She’s not _that_ Ophelia. Draco made that very clear last night. She’s rewriting that destiny, shaping it to do exactly what she should’ve done to all the men who controlled her. Because she’s much stronger and better.

And she’s not dead. 

No, she’s _very_ alive.

“Ginny, she’s fine,” Ron interjects, the food in his mouth still sloshing across his tongue and teeth.

_You would presume to know how I feel._

“I slept fine, Ginny,” Hermione adds with depleted nods, hoping that her half-hearted answer is enough to get Ginny to just shut the fuck up.

Ginny inhales cautiously, and Hermione can practically taste her impending frustration in response to whatever she'll say. She does everything she can to control the mounting anger in her fingers as they grip the silver knife a little tighter.

“Well, I woke up in the middle of the night—”

_Oh, Merlin._

“—and you weren’t in bed—”

_And what are you, my keeper?_

“—and I was confused about where you might have gone—”

_Ever heard of simply taking a piss in the middle of the night?_

“—so I got out of bed—”

_Course you fucking did._

“—and couldn’t find you anywhere—”

_Just shut the fuck_ up _already, Ginny._

“—and was quite worried about you.”

To counteract the rage that feels all too palpable, Hermione inhales a deep breath through her nose. “Well, no worries. I’m here now. Perfectly fine.”

Ron joins the sentiment, craning his head to the right and creasing his eyebrows. “Well, where’d you go?”

_Bloody hell, Ronald. Can't you mind your fucking business?_

She considers three possible explanations.

Hermione could say she was sleep-walking. It’s one of the safest excuses. She was taking an innocent, non-lucid stroll around the common room, tracing the furniture with her fingers and gliding her bare feet against the wiry carpet. She could blame the somnambulism on the war, claiming that it utterly ruined her standard sleep schedule, and that ever since those sleepless nights as they traveled through the U.K. and subsequently fought at Hogwarts, Hermione had struggled to sleep soundly at night. 

Or she could tell them that she simply required a brief stroll of the corridors—a lucid one. That she needed to pace the moonlit hallways and think to herself for a moment. That, again, sleep hadn’t been greeting her as effortlessly as before, and often she just needed to move her legs and force exhaustion until it kissed her goodnight.

Or—and this would surely shock them to their cores—Hermione could tell her friends that she and Draco were lying in the marshy fields of the Black Lake, plotting the downfall of Hogwarts in the early hours of dawn.

No, not yet.

Though that would be fucking hilarious.

She settles on the second option. “I was just on a walk,” she responds briskly, and then she sets the knife of the edge of her plate and lifts the piece of toast to her mouth. She takes a bite of her breakfast and tastes absolutely nothing.

It’s funny how that works. It’s as if she purposely forces her other senses to fail, flatline, cease and desist so that the only sensation running through her mind, touching her skin, whispering in her ear, and resting on the tip of her tongue is the memory of _him_.

The image of his mouth compels its way into her mind, and she begins to taste him in her food. She doesn’t even know what it is he tastes like, but fuck’s sake, she wants to if it feels anything like this. If it’s sweet and tangy and eclectic under the pressure of her throbbing tongue. He completely enraptures her brain with just the memory of his sensual mannerisms, and suddenly she feels a desperate longing to have _his_ tongue tour every inch of her body, snake across her neck, and lap around her ear—

Hermione feels a sharp twitch between her legs.

They convulse and tighten. She struggles to conceal the pressure that grows in her thighs as she clamps her legs together for a moment and then subsequently crosses them. A knot smothers her stomach, the pressure builds, and the thoughts travel down her spine and hit her lower back in a sharp stitch of intrigue.

She crosses her legs tighter, but the ruthless wheels in her mind keep fucking spinning. But why would she want them to stop? Why would she willfully impede this seductive image of Draco at her feet, touching her leg with his nimble fingers and speaking to her with his hot and enthralling words?

Hermione thanks the gods that Ron is too fucking stupid to read her mind.

“Did you hear me, ‘Mione?”

She glances over at Ron, who regards her with astonishment.

“What?” she mumbles, tilting her head innocently as she attempts to recall the conversation she completely tuned-out.

Ron sets his fork down against his plate and reaches his right hand to stroke Hermione’s face. Her red cheeks freeze over like a tundra when he makes contact with her skin. And suddenly, she’s turned off and sickened at the gesture.

“Are you alright? You seem on edge. Where’d you go for a walk yesterday?”

Hermione gulps, her eyes occasionally glancing over Ron’s shoulders so as to not make direct eye contact. “Just… around the common room.”

Her next move is risky, but she leaps into the unknown because it’s exhilarating, and as of last night that’s the exact sentiment she wishes to chase. Hermione turns her head over her left shoulder to glance at the Slytherin table just past a sea of yellow and black robes.

And there he sits. Placidly, almost sedated. He’s surrounded by his gang of friends—those who survived the war or were allowed back for eighth year, that is. Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass. They chat and giggle and eat as if everything is back to normal for them.

But him—he’s like a black rose in a sea of green hydrangeas, overshadowing the others with his innately seductive nature and unruffled disposition. Like he’s cognizant of his uniqueness and absolutely relishes in his isolated reputation.

And he’s staring right at her.

Hermione looks away quickly, her eyes falling back on Ron before he can realize who it is that she’s turned her attention towards.

“Really, I’m fine,” Hermione adds, forcing a smile. “I’m just having a little trouble sleeping at night, is all.” 

Ron clears his throat. “Maybe you need some… company?”

Ginny snorts, and Ron shoots her an irritated glare.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, stuffing a spoonful of porridge in her mouth to mask the budding smirk.

“Maybe,” Hermione responds half-heartedly, praying to the gods that Ron’s idea never sees the light of day—er, night. “I think maybe some Sleeping Draught might work.”

“Have you spoken to Madame Pomfrey about that?”

“Not yet. I will, though. Soon.”

“Good,” Ron answers with a soft smile, dropping his hand from her face and setting it upon Hermione’s uncovered thigh, just under the hem of her pleated, grey skirt.

His hand—Ron’s hands—on her skin… doesn’t feel the same… as _his_ …

It feels more like a chore. Like an obligation. Like a motion she has to endure until something better comes along to replace the lackluster touch.

It’s the way that Draco’s fingers danced on her skin that made the feeling more enticing, more fun. He invigorated her skin with simple touches, the tips of his fingers perceived like little sparks of euphoria. They made her feel sexier, more glamorous. Prized, special, one of a kind.

With Ron, she feels empty and plain fucking bored.

Hermione’s chin finds its home on her left shoulder as she glances at Draco yet again, hoping that the ice in his eyes can replace the lifeless and uninspiring touch of Ron Weasley.

They do. He’s stirring his tea in a little white porcelain cup with the magic from his fingers, staring her down with a cunning smirk. The power in his eyes and the movement of that one finger as it twirls in the air sends flares through Hermione’s stomach as she imagines all the things that he could do with that one digit… in that one motion… on that one sweet spot she loves to explore herself—

The switch in her mind clicks. Activates. 

Still regarding Draco out of the corner of her left eye, she stoically winks, then turns back to Ron and smiles brightly.

“Thank you, Ron.”

Hermione leans forward to kiss his cheek, her eyes gazing out of her peripheral in Draco’s direction as she does so.

Draco snorts and grins as Hermione slowly removes her lips from Ron’s skin.

_Read my mind_ , Hermione thinks to herself. _Hear for yourself how much I fucking hate Ron Weasley._

With another stolen glance, Hermione watches as Draco lifts his eyebrows.

_I fucking hate him. I fucking hate him. And I want to kill him. You'll help me, won't you?_

Draco continues to stare at her, tranquil and unfazed by her actions.

So she pushes forward more. 

_Don’t be fucking shy, Malfoy. I want you to lick those lips of yours if you can hear me._

One more quick glance confirms her suspicions—Draco drags his tongue across his bottom lip, followed by him grazing his teeth against his recently moistened lips.

Hermione smirks. 

_Good._

She thanks the gods yet again that Ron can’t decipher what is happening in her mind. Credits the powers that be for making him too fucking dimwitted to master even the basics of Legilimency.

Because as Hermione lifts her round eyes to sweetly yet connivingly smile at Ron, all that surges through her mind is how glorious it will feel to slit his throat and taste his crimson blood upon her parched tongue.

-

In conjunction with inexplorable amounts of anger at seemingly random moments, intrusive thoughts also become all too relevant for Hermione.

Later that day, as she scours the packed bookshelves of the library for additional readings with regards to her Charms class, Hermione suddenly feels the urge to… to…

Kill herself.

Punch the sharp edge of the bookshelf to draw some blood from her knuckles.

Choke the student who sits several feet to her right in the small studying nook in front of the grand, stained-glass window.

Out of her peripheral, Hermione gazes at the victim she fantasizes about murdering. Her eyes fall upon the unlucky bitch: Hannah Abbott.

She’s reading from a book that’s opened on the desk in front of her, but her hands fiddle with something else under the table. A moment later, she lifts the object from below the desk and sets it next to the book. Hermione discerns that it is a photograph—a moving one. Hannah lifts her left hand to her mouth to bite the nail of her thumb, and then she chews on her lower lip to hold back what Hermione notices are glistening tears filling the corners of her eyes.

Hermione angles her head a little more to see exactly what it is the little bitch is crying about.

The light from the window hits the picture just right, and Hermione makes out two faces on the image, belonging to Hannah herself and Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Justin’s arm is wrapped around Hannah’s shoulder as he leaves a trail of kisses up and down the side of her head. And Hermione can faintly make out the manner which Hannah smiles—it’s as dazzling as the stars, as bright as the color of her golden hair in the rays of sunshine. But most important, it’s a smile that no longer seems to exist.

Justin had died in the battle. He’d been one of the faces that Hermione had stumbled upon in the Great Hall. His lifeless body didn’t necessarily haunt her, but it did stir an iota of sadness—nothing more, though—when she heard what had happened from Parvati Patil, the gossiping _bitch_.

Apparently, Hannah and Justin had been unexpectedly separated during the battle. And when she found his body in the Great Hall, she wailed and collapsed in the arms of her friends who were alive, begging for someone to bring him back. She had to be dragged away from his body because Madame Pomfrey feared she’d lose her mind if she stared at it for too long.

_Hm. Interesting._

And it’s clear she hasn’t gotten past Justin’s death, because Hannah strokes the image with her index finger as her eyes constantly shift from her reading to the photograph. She must take it everywhere because Hermione notices, with clever precision, that the corners of the photo are tattered and torn, and it’s probably because Hannah holds it far too much, stuffs it in her pocket or bag wherever she goes, and maybe even sleeps with it on her pillow if she’s that fucking heartbroken.

“Granger.”

Hermione’s gut tenses as she feels someone approach her from behind.

“Glad I found you,” Draco whispers into her softened curls. 

She twists her body to face him.

“What are you doing?” she seethes, inspecting her surroundings with panic in her eyes.

“Relax,” he whispers, removing his wand from his pocket and waving it in the air, allowing a beam of white, sparkly mist to cover the area around them. “Nobody can see us. The Disillusionment Charm is one of my favorite spells, you know.”

Hermione scoffs at his lackadaisical charm, his ability to summon pebbles of intrigue on her skin simply at the tone of his voice. It’s smooth and silky and she doesn’t understand how her legs can feel like gelatin the second she hears him fucking _breathe_ around her, as if his breath poisons her with some sort of amorous brew.

“How’s the Weasel treating you?” he asks with a devilish smirk, one that insinuates that he already knows the answer.

“The usual. Like I’ll break down any second into a puddle of tears without him.”

Draco huffs. “I can tell that’s what he thinks when he looks at you. And I can understand why you’d want to slit his throat.” Hermione’s breath hitches at the glorious image. “He looked like he was boring you half to death during breakfast. I thought we’d have another Black Lake situation on our hands. It’s a shame, really. I always thought you deserved someone who could challenge you. Bring out the fire within you, just like I’ve promised to do.”

Each and every sentiment in that monologue of his holds Hermione captive.

She has to force herself to wriggle free of his alluring disposition.

“Can I help you with something?” she asks. “I have work to do, and you approaching me in the middle of the library is highly suspicious.”

“We’re hidden, Granger. No need to worry. Besides, I’m actually here to help _you_.”

Draco digs his hand into the pocket of his black slacks hidden beneath his robes and pulls out a tiny, black book. With the curl of his fingers, the miniscule book sprouts into a large tome resting in the palm of his hand. He then passes it to Hermione, who takes the book in her hands and spins it around to read the title.

_Obscurissimae exsecrationes._

“Dark curses,” Hermione reads, her eyebrows shooting up in fascination.

“Dark _est_ curses, actually,” Draco replies with a snarky grin. “You need to brush up on the specificities of your Latin. That—” he points to the first word and trails the carved letters with his fingertip— “is a superlative adjective, which means it—”

“I know what a superlative adjective is, Malfoy,” she snaps, yanking the book into her chest and rolling her eyes. “Where did you come across a book like this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. It does. Where’d you get it?”

Draco snickers. “Malfoy Manor has an extensive library, full of absolutely intriguing literature. Ancient texts, spell books, Shakespeare—all the likes.” He leans his head forward a few inches, compelling Hermione to flare her nostrils at his advance. “Told you I came to Hogwarts prepared for a little chaos.”

Hermione hides her excitement as she looks down at the book and runs her hand across the cover. The leather binding is icy and rough, the little golden letters etched into the skin tickling her fingertip as it glides over them. She refrains from opening it just yet.

“Come on,” Draco whispers, taking hold of her shoulders and spinning her slowly so that his chest is up against her back and his chin is resting against her shoulder, a position she can never escape with him. “I know you love to read.” His hands wrap around Hermione’s as he opens the book to one of the first pages. “So, _read_.”

She obeys. Her eyes skim the heading of the page.

_The Torment Curse._

Hermione’s back tightens at the words, and she hears Draco snicker from behind her.

“I felt that,” he whispers in her hair. “Fascinating name, isn’t it?”

“How is whatever this is any different than a Cruciatus?” Hermione preemptively asks, the indignance in her tone more tangible than the air around them.

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

_Why, you little fucking piece of shit._

Hermione’s fists tighten around the book as a means of subduing her ire. She stares at the dyed vellum of the pages yet sees only fucking red. Because how—how _dare_ he say something like that to her. How dare he bring up that day. How dare he—

Draco _tsks_. “Relax, Granger. I presume that you’ll be on the opposite end of that curse at some point.”

_Hopefully with you writhing on the floor, you fucking arsehole._

“Maybe,” he responds. “If you’d like.”

Hermione scoffs impatiently. “You didn’t answer my question. How is this any different than a Cruciatus Curse?”

“I don’t want to spoil anything,” he whispers. “Just be a good girl and read.”

_Be a good girl._

She obeys. 

_The Torment Curse was created in 1661 by a wizard named Edward Castello._

_Besmirched by the most reputable wizards in London for his involvement and leadership in a clandestine and disturbing muggle study, Castello was exiled to France where he lived out the rest of his days in a tiny, rural village. His wand was confiscated, but that did not stop him from seeking other forms of magic._

_Castello’s muggle study is one of the most disturbing to ever exist within the wizarding community. Interested in uncovering any sort of cerebral differences between wizards and muggleborns, Castello would strap his victims onto a makeshift surgical chair, and while they were still alive, he would skin their heads, crack their skulls, and study their brains. Often, the victims would die before the final step could be reached._

_Regardless, this secret operation was exposed, and Castello was exiled to France. There, he met with local magi and sorcerers who, as legend has it, taught him the ways of Dark Magic and even crafted a new wand for him, one that surpassed the trace of the British Ministry of Magic._

_Driven with anger at the forfeiture of his experiments, Castello created the Torment Curse, which he decided he would use on his victims in order to instill psychological pain and fear post physical torture. He practiced the curse on several members of the neighboring villages, first torturing them in whatever way he pleased and then implanting in their brains with a simple spell what he called a Memory Beam. Finally, whenever he so pleased, Castello would utter a separate incantation to trigger the memory, and the physical and mental pain of the initial torture would overtake the victim yet again, only to be stopped at Castello’s will._

_Castello was never caught for such actions because he would skillfully obliviate his victims after their physical torture. The only thing they would remember during what Castello named The Trigger is the pain they experienced during the torture, making it incredibly addicting and enjoyable for Castello to torment his victims whenever he pleased._

_Having never been caught, Castello died of natural causes, but his Torment Curse lives on. Most witches and wizards do not know of its existence, as the magic has been kept classified for several centuries, only available in select spell books and entrusted to the most dependable witches and wizards._

_A list of his favorite torture spells is available in this volume as well._

Hermione’s mind reels, and her eyes hungrily scan the next page where the spells for the memory beam and trigger spell are listed.

_Memory Beam incantation: the witch or wizard mutters the spell_ , Memento, _followed by a zig-zag motion of the wand over the victim’s head. A red light enveloped in a darker, scarlet mist will float from the wand and oscillate into the victim’s head, then nestle onto the parietal lobe to control the victim’s sensations, including visual and auditory activity._

_Trigger incantation:_ Senti Tuum Dolorem.

Hermione releases the caught breath in her chest as she cranes her neck to look up at Draco.

“Now, isn’t that just lovely?” he asks quietly. “This—” he points to the spells— “is our way of fucking with everyone’s minds. This is our way of stirring unbearable sensations and images in everyone’s brains. This is the perfect outlet for our little game.”

Hermione nips at the inside of her cheek. “You really are fucking crazy.”

Draco snorts. “What, and you’re not? I could practically feel your heartbeat grow and peak while you were reading. You can’t deny it.”

With the way that he’s staring at her with those beady, silver eyes, Hermione assumes that he’s reading her mind this very second. So, what the fuck is the point of lying?

“No,” she answers, “I can’t.” She shuts the book and offers it back to Draco over her shoulder.

He _tsks_ and lightly pushes it back towards her. “No, no. You keep it. Bookmark and underline whatever catches your attention. There’s plenty of fun ideas in there that you can draw inspiration from.”

Hannah sniffles to their right, and both Draco and Hermione glance over at her.

“What’s her deal?” Draco asks.

“Crying about her dead boyfriend.”

“Hm,” Draco mumbles, leaving Hermione’s back and sauntering towards Hannah. Still concealed by the charm, Draco settles behind Hannah’s chair, leans over her shoulder, gazes at the moving photograph, and smirks. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and runs his tongue across the inside of his lower lip.

“She’s not done much to me,” Hermione whispers, and Hannah lifts her head lightly to look around as if she’s heard something. Hermione bites her tongue as Hannah surrenders to the silence and returns to her work.

Draco walks back to Hermione and steps several feet further inside the cove between the two bookshelves. Hermione follows.

“Does it really matter if she’s done anything to you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and leaning his shoulder against one of the shelves.

Hermione shrugs. Chaos does, after all, come by chance. It isn’t biased or predictable—it selects its victims in the heat of the moment. And Hermione is willing to secede everything she values and owns to arouse that kind of chaos.

“No. I guess not.”

He takes a small step towards Hermione, his eyes latching onto hers and sparkling in the promise of something devious and perfect. “Let’s consider Hannah Abbott a practice round, then.”

“When?” she asks, cognizant of the desperation in her voice but disregarding it simply because she doesn’t care. Her nerves itch for something hot and stimulating, and if she can satiate that craving with torturing Hannah fucking Abbott of all people, she’ll do it in a moment.

Draco relishes in her keenness. “Are you itching to begin, Ophe—”

She can’t help the impulse. Hermione lifts her free hand and slams it against Draco’s mouth. Flames rise in her eyes and in her mouth as her fingers curl against his skin and eventually grip his defined jaw.

“ _What_ did I tell you about calling me that?” she seethes through her hot, gritted teeth.

Draco stares back at her, and Hermione feels his lips curve into a smile beneath her palm as if he savors the feeling of her hand trapping his mouth.

“Since you want to be difficult,” Hermione starts, tilting her head and stepping forward to close the foot of space between them, “I’ll remind you of the rules. You call me anything you want during the daytime. _Anything_ , for all I care. Except for that. You _know_ when I want you to call me that.”

He huffs against her hand, the heat of his breath causing her skin to tingle.

But she fights on to maintain the control in this moment.

“I need two weeks. I want to do my research and I want everything to be perfect. All of it. Every single step of this is going to be flawless. Is that understood?”

Draco doesn’t verbally respond, just slightly puckers and presses his lips against her palm.

“Why don’t you nod if you understand me.”

He nods slowly, and Hermione eventually removes her hand.

“It would do you well to listen to me,” she adds.

“Like I said—your wish is my command.”

“Good. Now fuck off until I need you.”

Draco huffs with a smirk. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t be afraid to reach out for anything you might need taking care of.” He lowers his face and hovers it inches from hers. “Whatever that lovely mind can think of, I’ll happily oblige.”

With that, Draco removes his wand from his pocket again and removes the charm that surrounds them. And then he saunters away, walking backwards and smirking as he disappears behind the end of the bookshelf.

Hermione finally catches her breath and squeezes her eyes shut, hoping to release all of the tension in her mind with that pressure. When she opens her eyes, she looks over at Hannah one more time.

Hannah Abbott. Sweet, innocent, sad Hannah Abbott.

Poor _fucking_ Hannah Abbott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not an exciting chapter at all, but we'll get to those soon ;)


End file.
